


Hyenas and Hand Grenades

by Laylah



Category: Baccano!
Genre: Crime, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-16
Updated: 2009-11-16
Packaged: 2017-10-03 03:40:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Look vulnerable, that's the secret, and if you can't look vulnerable then look trustworthy. But vulnerable is better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hyenas and Hand Grenades

It's when he starts trying to measure the hours, taking the days times twenty-four, adding the difference between this afternoon and that evening, that Dune generally thinks it's time to do it again. He's measuring out smaller numbers every time, and he knows he needs to keep it under control, but he's been so good at it so far. And it feels _good_, and he has a system and really, the cops in this town are too busy taking mafia bribes to go out and catch killers, aren't they? Especially smart killers, like him.

Dune's never the same person twice when he goes out on the town like this. Look vulnerable, that's the secret, and if you can't look vulnerable then look trustworthy. But vulnerable is better. If he sticks a knife in some delinquent or tough guy every -- he glances at the clock -- 175 hours or so, who's going to complain? And besides, those guys make the best faces right before they die. Anyone can kill hookers, and Dune's had his share of those, probably -- how many is a fair share, anyway? -- and it's better than nothing. But give him a big guy, right, some bruiser twice his size with broad shoulders and mean eyes, a guy who solves his problems with his fists. There's just no comparison.

Last time he went as clergy, and that worked great, both things at once, so most people smiled at him and thought he was a nice young priest and then a few tough guys got defensive about the judgment they thought they could see him passing. One or two choice words about God's righteousness had them throwing punches and then Dune was cutting and cutting and --

It's a good thing he's going out tonight. His hands are shaking, he's so excited. And he needs to be calm, needs to not let the excitement show, for this costume to work. He puts the hat on, pulls at his hair to make it frame his face, turns down the veil. Yes. Very fashionable. Doesn't he just look pretty?

Girl costumes are wonderful for the vulnerable part. Especially the shoes, which never fit right but Dune puts up with them anyway because if they make him limp a little that just adds to the effect. He likes the way the heels make it hard to run. When he's looking for easy targets he watches girls going by, watches for the little wobble of an ankle when a girl can't quite ever get her balance. When he goes out like this other men look at him the same way.

If he thinks about _that_ too hard, he'll ruin the line of his skirt, won't he? And that would be a waste.

Dune picks up the handbag he bought for this costume, a silly little beaded thing just big enough for his smallest knife. It matches the dress, and it looks useless, so it's perfect. He's unsteady on his heels when he leaves this room -- one he rented under someone else's name, and one he won't come back to after this evening, because he'll be clever and move on -- but that's okay. That's who he is right now.

Some people would say this is a bad part of town, but really, as far as Dune can tell, all of Chicago is a bad part of town if you know how to provoke it. But right now, when the sun's going down and the streetlights are only just flickering on, when the summer heat is thinking about taking the night off but only thinking about it, like a hooker who hasn't seen the cash yet, right now the city's easy to provoke. Dune takes little swaying skirt-hobbled steps down the street and he's asking for it, he really is.

He turns down into an alley as soon as he's sure he has an admirer, a big guy in an ill-fitting suit with the lazy, mean smile of a schoolyard bully. He slows as he moves further down, looks around as if he's --

"Lost, sweetheart?" tough guy asks. Dune makes sure to start in surprise, and look back with his alarmed face on. Tough guy smiles wider and swaggers toward him, so Dune backs up, clutching the silly little handbag in front of himself. "Maybe I can help you get where you're going."

Dune shakes his head -- he's never been able to do a really convincing voice for this, and it's so much better when they don't figure him out -- and his next backward step catches a crack in the pavement, so he stumbles.

Tough guy lunges for him -- maybe just trying to keep him from falling, even, but Dune has his doubts -- and this is faster than it should have gone, but these things happen. The little knife is light and comforting in his hand and it might even look like he's reaching for help, only his right hand clutches at tough guy's shoulder while his left slides under the ugly jacket and there's nothing, oh, nothing so sweet as that moment -- the scent of blood and then the stink of fear right on top of it and tough guy tries to push him away, eyes wide now, and Dune just hangs on tight, that one hand, strikes again, and _then_ tough guy tries to grab his knife hand now that they're both wearing blood, too late, much too late -- Dune swipes down to avoid the grasping hand, rakes a long gash down the meat of his prey's thigh and those, oh, those pour with blood, don't they?

"Die," he whispers, smiling through his veil at the horror on tough guy's face -- already whiter than it was, with the two of them standing in, collapsing in, so much of tough guy's blood, and he thinks the word his man mouths is 'bitch' but it's hard to be sure, and when Dune lands on top of him, the tension's already going out of the meat but he cuts a few more times anyway because it feels so good. _He_ feels so good, wants to get the damn skirt hiked up right now and finish what killing starts, and it's dark here and this one didn't make much noise, so maybe --

A hand catches him around the throat and when he swings his knife back his wrist gets caught, too. "Interesting," says the guy who just got him. "That's very interesting." Not a cop, or he'd be face first into the wall by now. The guy's close enough that his breath is hot on the back of Dune's neck. "You do this often, sweetheart?"

"Maybe," Dune whispers. He tries for a shrug. It's kind of a slippery word, often. He'd like to do it more than he does, that's for sure.

The guy hauls him up off his prey, almost chokes him but doesn't -- being merciful on purpose, and Dune can tell from the way the fingers around his throat loosen slightly -- then lets go of his neck and spins him around like they're dancing, only it ends with Dune's knife slipping from his fingers after his arm twists too far, and after that he hits the alley wall and the breath gets knocked out of him.

The guy looks like a goddamn movie star. He's tall and square-jawed and handsome, and if Dune really were what he's pretending to be this would be the point where he swooned. But he's no heroine and movie star's no good guy, either, pinning Dune to the wall with the press of one muscular thigh and reaching up with his free hand to lift Dune's veil.

Dune flinches preemptively. The last time some guy figured out his disguise it was a week before his split lip healed enough for him to talk without lisping. This one could be worse, even. Movie star seems to know what he's doing.

He doesn't hit Dune right away, though. "Oh?" he says, looking closer. "I don't think I've ever seen one of you be so dangerous before."

"It's not what it looks like," Dune murmurs. "I'm not really a -- I mean, I just got this to -- to find guys like him." He looks up. Movie star's eyes are hero-of-the-story blue. "They never see it coming if you look weak enough."

"Hah," movie star says, drawing the syllable out too far. "You like it when they think they're safe. I like that, too. It's so much _better_, to kill somebody when they think they can't be hurt." His hand is squeezing tighter around Dune's wrist, hard, so Dune's breath hitches with the pain.

"You like it," Dune says. He's shaky with nerves and he still hasn't lost his hard-on from earlier and that's a combination that'll get him in a lot of trouble one of those days. Maybe this one. "S-so we have something in common." He slides his free hand between them and finds movie star's cock by feel, hard through his nice tailored trousers. "You want me to suck you?"

Movie star smiles. "You think if you do that I won't kill you?"

Dune licks his lips. "I don't know," he says. He tries to look helpless. Nervous. Not worth killing. "Will you?"

"I haven't decided yet." Movie star takes half a step back and he doesn't let go of Dune's wrist but he unbuttons his trousers with his other hand. "Maybe if this feels really good I'll forget that I wanted to."

"You think so?" Dune says. It's a shot. "Okay, yeah, fuck, let's find out." His heart's beating fast and his hands shake and it takes a minute but he figures it out eventually -- he's _afraid_, not just looking the part. This is what it feels like. He'd almost forgotten. Movie star's really something.

Dune gets down on his knees in the alley there, and his knife hand is still trapped, held tight in movie star's grip, so he has to fumble a little with his other hand to get the bastard's cock free of his shorts. It's big like the rest of him. Dune's mouth waters. "Tell me your name?" he says on impulse. "This seems kind of personal."

"Even if I'm going to kill you?" movie star asks. When he smiles it looks like he's a mess inside, just as bad as Dune.

"Especially then," Dune says. He can smell the guy's musk from here, and it mixes with the scent of blood from his kill. Everything's getting mixed up now, smudging together. One big mess.

"It's Ladd Russo," the guy says. He rubs his cock across Dune's cheek. "I expect you to remember it until I kill you."

Russo like the mafia family, Dune thinks, opening his mouth to lick. "Promise," he says. "I won't forget it." He never forgets anything important, and he definitely won't forget something like this. Dune licks his lips and leans in, stretching his mouth wide so he can fit Ladd Russo's cock in it.

He's never been into this as much as his other hobbies, doesn't count the hours in between times or anything, but he likes it okay, and he doesn't want to die, which is pretty good motivation. He closes his eyes and pushes his way down on it until he chokes a little, and Russo makes a smug bastard noise about that. Of course.

Hell, let him look. He probably likes that, too. Dune pulls off his hat, and his hair falls loose across one side of his face, but it probably still looks pretty good.

"You practice this a lot?" Russo asks. He pets Dune's hair. "You're good at it."

Dune makes the smug bastard noise back. Of course he's good at it. He's good at lots of things. And he feels all mixed up and restless inside, killing but not finishing, really afraid but completely fascinated. He pulls up his skirt and shoves his hand down his drawers. He hasn't even lost his hard-on despite the fear, thinks he still wants it just as much as he would if it were just him and the dead guy in this alley -- and the friction is such a relief, rough against his cock and soothing on his nerves, stroking all that twitchy energy into one idea, that he's alive and he's a killer and it feels --

"Nice," Russo says. "That looks real nice." His fingers slide through Dune's hair, close slowly, pull just a little too hard. "Get up. I changed my mind. I'm going to fuck you."

Dune lets his teeth scrape Russo's cock as he's pulled back off it. He's not sure how Russo does it, gives an order like that and makes his balls ache instead of making his knife hand twitch. He gets to his feet, awkward in the heels, and Russo lets go of him but Dune doesn't even try to fight, just turns, braces himself against the wall and reaches for his cock again.

"Come on, then," he says, looking back over his shoulder. He's always kind of liked the way sucking cock makes his voice all raw and wet.

Russo smiles, steps up close enough to pin Dune right to the wall, so the brick's going to fuck up his knuckles as he jerks off. "I like you," he says. His cock pushes at Dune's asshole, and it's big, and this is going to hurt. "You're an interesting guy."

"Thanks," Dune says, and he'd add something else about how he'll stay interesting as long as Russo doesn't kill him, only then Russo pushes, and all he says instead is, "_Fuck_."

"That's right, that's right," Russo croons. "You don't do this as much, do you? You're so tight."

Dune shakes his head, breathing through bared teeth. The circumstances probably don't make him seem terribly believable, but this isn't something he goes for often at all. Most people aren't anywhere near as much fun fucking as they are bleeding. Ladd Russo is just an exception to the rule.

His teeth scrape the back of Dune's neck, and he puts his whole body into the fuck, the way he moves, the solid weight of him against Dune's back. It aches, burns where his cock is buried in Dune's ass, and the friction and the smell of blood and the harsh sound of his breaths -- Dune's nerves crackle and twinge, things inside him tight and twisted.

"Your hair looks like blood," Russo says, like Dune really is a girl looking for romance, and bites Dune's earlobe, quick and sharp.

"Fuck," Dune says again. The knuckles of his knife hand scrape the brick wall from jerking himself off, and the fingers of his other hand splay, looking for purchase in the neat lines of mortar. "You wait until now to sweet-talk me?"

Russo laughs. "You're so good," he says. "Feel so good. Make me want to, ah," and his hand closes around Dune's throat again, hard enough that Dune coughs and thrashes by instinct, feeling how he tightens around Russo's cock without meaning to -- and Russo moans so sweet it's creepy, and shudders to a stop in Dune's ass as his grip relaxes.

Dune pushes back toward him, trying to get enough room -- he doesn't need much -- to really move without moving his hand. "Don't take it out yet," he says when Russo shifts, stroking his cock fast and hard. He feels twisting and sharp inside, like all those long strings of tissue that hold muscle to bones are thin wires inside him, coiling up.

"Just this once," Russo says, "as a favor," and his fingertips stroke the line of Dune's windpipe like a promise, an offer, and oh god he really could die right now, and all the taut twisted wires inside him snap at the same time and he sags, hissing, his come stinging the scrapes on the back of his hand.

Russo pets Dune's hair, a weird, friendly gesture, like a kid with a big dog. "You didn't tell me who you are," he says.

"Didn't know you cared," Dune says. He thinks about lying. He has about half a dozen names he gives to landladies in the boarding houses where he stays. "I'm Dune."

"Dune," Russo says, drawing the name out, making it a purr. He pulls out, and Dune winces, stumbles a little, and when he turns around Russo's buttoning up his trousers. "Come home with me, Dune," he says. One of his hands settles warm against Dune's waist, like he's going to lead Dune into a dance, or something.

He should keep his fucking mouth shut now, but -- Dune tugs his skirt back down and looks up, meets Russo's eyes. That blue still doesn't look real. "You change your mind about killing me?" He's not even sure he cares.

"You're going to be one of my friends," Russo says. He leans down, and Dune realizes what he's doing just a second too late to stop it -- Russo picks him up like he weighs nothing, and Dune thinks he'd like to get a look at the muscle he can feel under the nice cut of that suit jacket. "We're going to kill _other_ people. Together."

Together, huh? Dune tries to imagine it, wonders what Russo looks like when he gets messy himself, wonders how hot it gets him when he's doing his own killing. Dune twines his arms around Russo's neck, and smiles. "Sounds good to me," he says. What the hell. He needed a new routine anyway.


End file.
